


The Curse of the Cyclic Mirror

by sophie9709



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Solving, Gen, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5255333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophie9709/pseuds/sophie9709
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow White may be a fairy tale at first, until it became the horrific reality for a family. However, is everything as it seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

No matter what life you lead  
the virgin is a lovely number:  
cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper,  
arms and legs made of Limoges,  
lips like Vin Du Rhône,  
rolling her china-blue doll eyes  
open and shut.  
Open to say,  
Good Day Mama,  
and shut for the thrust  
of the unicorn.  
She is unsoiled.  
She is as white as a bonefish.

Once there was a lovely virgin  
called Snow White.  
Say she was thirteen.  
Her stepmother,  
a beauty in her own right,  
though eaten, of course, by age,  
would hear of no beauty surpassing her own.  
Beauty is a simple passion,  
but, oh my friends, in the end  
you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes.  
The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred--  
something like the weather forecast--  
a mirror that proclaimed  
the one beauty of the land.  
She would ask,  
Looking glass upon the wall,  
who is fairest of us all?  
And the mirror would reply,  
You are the fairest of us all.  
Pride pumped in her like poison.

Suddenly one day the mirror replied,  
Queen, you are full fair, ‘tis true,  
but Snow White is fairer than you.  
Until that moment Snow White  
had been no more important  
than a dust mouse under the bed.  
But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand  
and four whiskers over her lip  
so she condemned Snow White  
to be hacked to death.  
Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter,  
and I will salt it and eat it.  
The hunter, however, let his prisoner go  
and brought a boar’s heart back to the castle.  
The queen chewed it up like a cube steak.  
Now I am fairest, she said,  
lapping her slim white fingers.

Snow White walked in the wildwood  
for weeks and weeks.  
At each turn there were twenty doorways  
and at each stood a hungry wolf,  
his tongue lolling out like a worm.  
The birds called out lewdly,  
talking like pink parrots,  
and the snakes hung down in loops,  
each a noose for her sweet white neck.  
On the seventh week  
she came to the seventh mountain  
and there she found the dwarf house.  
It was as droll as a honeymoon cottage  
and completely equipped with  
seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks  
and seven chamber pots.  
Snow White ate seven chicken livers  
and lay down, at last, to sleep.

The dwarfs, those little hot dogs,  
walked three times around Snow White,  
the sleeping virgin. They were wise  
and wattled like small czars.  
Yes. It’s a good omen,  
they said, and will bring us luck.  
They stood on tiptoes to watch  
Snow White wake up. She told them  
about the mirror and the killer-queen  
and they asked her to stay and keep house.  
Beware of your stepmother,  
they said.  
Soon she will know you are here.  
While we are away in the mines  
during the day, you must not  
open the door.

Looking glass upon the wall . . .  
The mirror told  
and so the queen dressed herself in rags  
and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White.  
She went across seven mountains.  
She came to the dwarf house  
and Snow White opened the door  
and bought a bit of lacing.  
The queen fastened it tightly  
around her bodice,  
as tight as an Ace bandage,  
so tight that Snow White swooned.  
She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy.  
When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace  
and she revived miraculously.  
She was as full of life as soda pop.  
Beware of your stepmother,  
they said.  
She will try once more.

Looking glass upon the wall. . .  
Once more the mirror told  
and once more the queen dressed in rags  
and once more Snow White opened the door.  
This time she bought a poison comb,  
a curved eight-inch scorpion,  
and put it in her hair and swooned again.  
The dwarfs returned and took out the comb  
and she revived miraculously.  
She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie.  
Beware, beware, they said,  
but the mirror told,  
the queen came,  
Snow White, the dumb bunny,  
opened the door  
and she bit into a poison apple  
and fell down for the final time.  
When the dwarfs returned  
they undid her bodice,  
they looked for a comb,  
but it did no good.  
Though they washed her with wine  
and rubbed her with butter  
it was to no avail.  
She lay as still as a gold piece.

The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves  
to bury her in the black ground  
so they made a glass coffin  
and set it upon the seventh mountain  
so that all who passed by  
could peek in upon her beauty.  
A prince came one June day  
and would not budge.  
He stayed so long his hair turned green  
and still he would not leave.  
The dwarfs took pity upon him  
and gave him the glass Snow White--  
its doll’s eyes shut forever--  
to keep in his far-off castle.  
As the prince’s men carried the coffin  
they stumbled and dropped it  
and the chunk of apple flew out  
of her throat and she woke up miraculously.

And thus Snow White became the prince’s bride.  
The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast  
and when she arrived there were  
red-hot iron shoes,  
in the manner of red-hot roller skates,  
clamped upon her feet.  
First your toes will smoke  
and then your heels will turn black  
and you will fry upward like a frog,  
she was told.  
And so she danced until she was dead,  
a subterranean figure,  
her tongue flicking in and out  
like a gas jet.  
Meanwhile Snow White held court,  
rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut  
and sometimes referring to her mirror  
as women do.  
-Anne Sexton, 1928 - 1974


	2. The Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Once we have accepted the story we cannot escape the story's fate.”   
> -P.L. Travers

Charles Sastri hurried along Baker Street until he found the distinctive black door with its brass door knocker. The magic number was there: 221. He then banged the knocker three times and almost waited for the door to open. It was an old lady, a kindly one, and fully confident in her purple dress and shoes. Charles smiled. He hoped he could see more of such ladies before his days were out.

“Hello dear. Are you looking for Sherlock?"  
“Yes, ma’m. Sherlock Holmes."  
“Client! He’s just upstairs, dear. Would you like a cup of tea?"  
“Yes. Milk only please."

He climbed the stairs to find two sandy blond people, a man and a woman. The man was laughing and joking with the obviously pregnant woman, whose bulge could not be covered by a cardigan. The man was sitting in a very comfortable armchair whilst the woman on the black leather couch. Somehow, none of them fitted the description of the one man he was looking for.  
“Mr Sherlock Holmes?"  
“He’s just in the bathroom,” said the woman. She was plain-looking, but had her own understated beauty. “I’m his wife, and pregnant with his child. Oh, where did my manners go? I’m Molly Hooper and this is Sherlock’s partner in crime solving, John Watson."  
They were all shaking hands when Sherlock opened the door. His lean body crossed the corridor in three steps, once more to his elegant seat, and he sat down. His blue eyes pierced though Charles's secrets and soul. “Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume?"  
“Yes. And you are?"  
“Charles Sastri."  
“Right. Shall we begin?"  
“Yes, well…"  
“Do take a kitchen chair before you kneel over from the shock of the murder of your daughter."  
“How…how did you know?,” exclaimed Charles when he dragged a chemically stained chair from the jerry-rigged laboratory-cum-kitchen into the living room.  
“You have long strands of fresh bloody black hair on your chest and lap from cradling your daughter’s corpse. The hair is too soft to be an adult’s and most parents seem to keep the tradition of keeping their boy’s hair short. Now, do not waste my time."  
“Well…” muttered Charles as he pulled up several papers from his leather messenger bag, “there is a curse I need to tell you about."  
“What does a curse have to do with this murder?"  
“It probably caused it."  
“Nonsence. Curses do not exist."  
“Sherlock, remember the nocebo effect. The mind is a powerful thing that can make its own realities. Remember the Baskerville case?"  
“Thank you John. Yes, I do recall. Then please just give me the bare facts of the tale. No embellishments."  
“Yes. Are you familiar with the fairy tale Snow White and the Seven Dwarves?"  
“No."  
“I am,” piped up Molly. "In fact, I have just read the story again to this little one.” She pointed to her rotund belly.  
“Molly, dear do you really think our child needs his mind filled with useless fairytales?” Somehow his monotone was gone when talking to his wife. His voice softened, and showed his immense respect.  
“Sherlock, they are not useless. Most of them contain a very important moral."  
“Alright then, tell us."  
“Snow White was a Princess and her mother had died. Her father, the King, then married a beautiful woman. The new Queen had a magical mirror that would answer anything asked of it. Everyday, the Queen asked the mirror who the most beautiful person in the world is, and the mirror would say she was. Well, the Princess was getting more and more beautiful herself until one day her beauty surpassed those of the Queen’s. The Queen then got immensely jealous and ordered one of her woodcutters to kill the Princess in the forest, and as proof of the deed, wanted the Princess’s heart back. Except the Princess was so innocent and pure the Woodcutter could not carry out the deed. He set the Princess free and killed a lamb for its heart instead. Meanwhile the Princess found the house with the Seven Dwarves and agreed to do the housework in exchange for room and board. The next day the Queen asked her mirror again the customary question and found out Snow White was still alive. And so she executed the woodchopper and poisoned an apple. She disguised herself as an old woman and found Snow White in the forest. The Queen then gave Snow White the apple. Upon biting it the Princess died. When the dwarves found the Princess they were so bereaved they built a crystal coffin and surrounded it with garlands. A Prince came along and found the coffin with the Princess. He became so entranced with her that he begged the dwarves if he could take Snow White back to his kingdom. The dwarves agreed but when they were moving the coffin the piece of poisoned apple dislodged from the Princess and she came back to life. When the Prince and Princess married they invited the Queen to the wedding but they forced her to dance in red hot iron shoes until the Queen died."  
“My daughter is a victim of the mirror’s curse,” explained Charles. “The reason why I’m here is to stop the curse once and for all before it claims its next vicim. The police refuse to help, stating that their resources are already pretty thin. Can you help me, Mr Holmes? Please?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes until he saw the pensive face of Molly. It then struck him that in some way the case disturbed Molly and there was something going on he could not detect yet. He then turned back to Charles.  
“Yes, on the condition that there will be no more pleading because they…do…not…work. One more and I shall abandon this case. Start with how your family became a fantastic fairy tale."  
“For services to King and Country a man named Lord Brian Cassock received a fine gilded mirror. This was then installed in one hall of his manor. However soon there were talks of voices coming from the mirror. A silky, velvety voice was telling the various women of the house who he or she thought was the most beautiful in the house. Of course we soon found contradictions and it became a family joke. But it still had the power to induce madness and a few years later Lord Brian’s wife the Lady Laura killed one of her nieces. Lord Brian was understandably afraid of the mirror so he sold it. The next owners, Mr and Mrs Percy and Bianca Pemcast, also had an incidence in which Bianca’s aunt murdered her maid, just because the mirror kept on telling the aunt the maid was immensely more beautiful than her. And it goes on and on. Cases of aunts killing nieces, sisters killing sisters, and even mothers killing daughters. The curse did not usually affect men, though one or two cases has happened. Of course when we heard the legend we scoffed it just as you did and bought what we thought was a fine mirror at a bargain price. Now this mirror has costed-costed too much!"  
He then started to quietly sob, blowing his nose into a handkerchief. John walked up to him to ask if he wanted some time alone. Charles shook his head and carried on.  
“My dear daughter, beloved by all. How can my wife do this?"  
“Tell me about your family, starting from when you were married."  
“I met my wife a decade ago. She…she was working in a law firm in New Delhi when I first joined as a mere clerk. Somehow, we clicked. Even during her moments…"  
“Moments?"  
“She has schizophrenia. She used to be able to keep it under control with medication but had her episodes about once a month, very rarely twice. She had never hurt anyone…until now."  
“Where did your daughter come in?"  
“We got married three years later, Indira and I. She was unable to bear a child however and after the forth miscarriage we decided to adopt Harsha instead. After two years we then all immigrated to England with Indira and her sister Sharma. As we are both very busy with our law jobs Sharma has been our housekeeper and babysitter. She has been very helpful."  
“How is she?"  
“Distraught. She has just lost her only sibling."  
“Understandable. Tell me about the day of the murder."  
“I was working on a case when I received a call from the cops. They said that Indira had apparently killed Harsha so I immediately went home. There I found Sharma talking to a cop an Indira sedated by a doctor. I then went up to the hallway, where the mirror was installed, to find Harsha dead, stabbed! I then cradled her body, hoping she would come back. That was yesterday."  
“Tell me the number and location of the stabs."  
“Se-several to the face, oh god!” Charles then started to cry again. “It was horrible! Some of the wounds went to the other side of the face and there was one through her throat. She was almost unrecognisable."  
“Hmmm. And pray tell me, how was your wife’s mental state before the attack?"  
“Not too good actually. Her psychotic attacks were increasing dramatically two months. She was off work and was seeing several psychiatrists, but nobody could work out what happened. And now she is in Bethlehem Hospital."  
“Curious, curious."  
“What are your fees?"  
“For you, none. The solving of the mystery is enough for me. Now, do leave, I have work to do."


	3. The Investigation

Sherlock steepled his fingers and stared at nothing for several minutes. He ignored everything around him, up to the point he did not notice John leave the room to go back to his patients. Molly by then had miraculously manoeuvred around the laboratory to make two cups of tea when Sherlock finally snapped back into reality.

“Where’s John?"  
“He’s back…"  
“At his practise. Damn. I suppose I have to do this the traditional way."  
“But before you do, don’t you want a cuppa?"  
“Oh yes actually. Thank you."  
They each took a sip. Then Molly spoke. “What is it about this case that’s so interesting?"  
“I think the murderer is not actually the murderer?"  
“How?"  
“I think the person to blame for Harsha’s death is not Indira. Something tells me Indira was not quite herself."  
“You mean Indira was hypnotised?"  
“Molly, don’t be silly, one cannot hypnotise people to murder. If one can then there will be no need for assassins. Hypnotists will become the richest profession."  
“True. Then something a lot more subtle?"  
“Yes. Tell me Molly, what happens when a schizophrenic goes off medication?"  
“You’ll have a better time asking John because I can't remember the last time I read a psychology paper. If I remember right, then the patient’s symptoms will come back. This includes hallucinations and lack of coherent thought."  
“Hmm. Thanks.” Sherlock then put down his half-full cup and walked towards the front door. “I will be back soon enough. Take care."  
Molly snorted.

-§-

"Let me through."  
“No."  
“Gregson, we can either do this the easy way, in which you grant me permission, or we can do it the hard way, in which you will be ordered to grant me permission."  
“Mr Holmes, I’m aware of who you think you are, but you are not my boss. Therefore, sod off."

The crime scene was on the edges of Mayfair, not quite enough to be ludicrously exclusive, but the grand townhouse still represented the Sastri family’s success. The tasteful facade of cream plaster and dark blue door was crisscrossed with gaudy blue and white barrier tape, which, annoyingly for Sherlock, he had no authority to cross. If only he carried around him a pair of scissors.  
“Alright. I shall talk to Lestrade myself."  
“Mr Holmes, don’t you dare."  
“Hello George! Oh, you are not George. So sorry, my dear brother in law. It is just that I am in a bit of a flap…oh, you mean I should avoid Gregson? Then who should I talk to? Hmmm. Thank you, I shall talk to Constable Lin immediately. Ah, I think I can see her."  
A tall Asian lady appeared right besides Sherlock. She met eye to eye with Sherlock, despite her flat plimsolls. Actually, her shoes were the reason why she was able to sneak up on Sherlock.  
“Mr Holmes I presume?"  
“Yes. Constable Lin I presume?"  
“Come with me."  
She opened the police barrier for him and lead him to a van. Then she handed him protective overalls and gloves. “You must wear this, otherwise I’ll not allow you near the body."  
“And? What if I just run in?"  
“I have the authority to physically restrain you."  
“Right…"

From a distance Sherlock managed to blend in with his temporary contemporaries. However, that illusion was soon lost when one observes Sherlock stopping at various points, humming and harring with his small magnifier when the others were more focused on the actual body. Only after some minutes did Sherlock finally reach the victim.

“Has anyone touched her?,” asked Sherlock.  
Lin raised her eyebrow. Answer enough.  
“Which places have you touched her?"  
“Just the wounds. There was no evidence of sexual contact."  
“Just so. Let’s see. Her body was not moved very far, she suffered one…two…three…stabs. Fatal slice of the carotoid artery on the left side, face stabbings done after death, no signs of struggle…"  
More mutterings. “Constable Lin, can I please see the back of the mirror?"  
“What do you mean Mr Holmes? There’s nothing behind it."  
“Are you sure?"  
“Well, no…"  
“Then let me try."

Sherlock felt around the guilded frame, feeling at first the hinges and then on the other side a small hook. He then released the hook to reveal a very small space, dominated by a safe.  
“Ah, this is what I was looking for."  
“The safe?"  
“No, the small space."  
“What can you hide in such a small space? A child. maybe?"  
“Maybe. Who else was in the house when the murder happened?"  
“Apart from Indira? A cleaner named Terrance, and an au pair named Mystique."  
“All short?"  
“Yes."  
“Where was Sharma?"  
“She was out shopping. This was confirmed independently by three people in the supermarket."  
“Curious, curious. Can I please speak to Sharma?"  
“I shall organise that."  
“While you do, I need to talk to Sharma, Terrance, and Mystique as well.”  
“No."  
“Alright then, I will organise it myself."  
“Why would you want to speak to a murderess? There is no doubt she murdered her own daughter!"  
“I disagree."  
“Whatever you say, Smartypants, but the evidence is the evidence."  
“Indeed. Have you confiscated everything yet?"  
“Why would we? The murderer has been caught and this is a working household!"  
“If you say so. Can I please have Indira’s medicine left over from this house?"  
“Sure. Let me get them."

Constable Lin then went upstairs for a few minutes, coming down again with a small shopping bag filled with orange tubes. Sherlock said his thanks, and let himself out, but not before he threw his blue overalls into Gregson’s face.

-§-

In the waiting room of Bartholomew Hospital Sherlock was tapping his fingers to the rhythm of a traditional lullaby. Molly was singing to their unborn child the previous evening. It was so sweet and soothing Sherlock was almost rocking himself to sleep on his feet. Since then he found that the particular rhythm soothed him…

“Mr Holmes? You can see Ms Sastri now.” The nurse lead Sherlock through to another building, where they both were scanned, patted down, and Sherlock was then given a security badge. Only then could the nurse lead Sherlock to Indira.

She was reading a book in the library but looked up when the nurse knocked on a table nearby. “Sherlock Holmes, yes?"  
“Yes. Ms Indira Sastri?"  
“It is indeed I. How did you come here?"  
“I have connections.” (Said connection, quite obviously, was more rotund than most people due to his love of cake and hatred of exercise)  
“I did murder Harsha."  
“Yes. But not on your own volition."  
“What do you mean?"  
“I can already tell by your normal behaviour that if your mental health was properly maintained you would have murdered your daughter a different way. In fact, there are huge doubts on whether you would have murdered her at all."  
“What do you mean ‘different way’."  
“Something with more finesse and thought than hacking away at a face in the middle of a carpeted hallway. You are a lawyer, are you not? Surely that is a testament of your mental prowess?"  
“I am flattered Mr Holmes but I do not know where you are going."  
“I think you were influenced?"  
“How?"  
“I have my theories. Do you anyone who would want you to go crazy?"  
“Yes. The people I placed behind bars."  
“Anyone else?"  
“Not that I know of."  
“What did the voices in your head say just before you killed your daughter?"  
“It was in Hindi. A rough translation of it would be probably that my daughter was more beautiful than me, I was ugly, I was therefore unloved, and I needed to kill my daughter to be loved again."

There was Sharma. The policeman was callous enough to note that she was less pretty than her sister, which annoyed Sherlock. It was a superficial statement which (rightly, I may add) indicated a mind unsuited for crime investigations.

Sharma agreed to meet back at her home/crime scene over a cup of coffee.  
“This is excellent coffee. But this is expected from a person who keeps house so effectively."  
“Thank you Mr Holmes."  
“Your niece's death, it must devastate you so."  
“Yes.” Her eyes were empty with grief.  
“Are you alright?"  
“I do not know."  
“What do you do around the house?"  
“I help manage the house and make sure everything runs smoothly. I’m also studying. Forensics actually."  
“Do you want to be a detective?"  
“Yes. Especially now."  
“Why do you think your sister killed her daughter?"  
“I do not know."  
“Tell me about your sister’s mental health in the few weeks before the murder."  
A long description followed detailing every twist and turn into Indira’s decent into madness. Sherlock wrote a summary of everything before closing his notebook. He then remembered something.  
“You seem to be well acquainted with your sister’s mental state. By any chance, do you help maintain it?"  
“Well, I do pick up the medication."  
“Thank you for your time."


	4. The Consultations

Speaking to Harsha’s various ‘enemies’ was immensely frustrating. All were rather gleeful of her decent and yet none of them would admit they had anything to do with the murder. Of course there were various ways of doing so by proxy…

“One of the people Harsha went up against has a cousin married to a pharmaceutical baron,” explained Sherlock to John. "That I think will be our best bet. Nothing is more simple for them than to slip something into the tablets, especially when you are the ones manufacturing them."  
They were being driven in a taxi from one of Molly’s prenatal classes. Sherlock had his paternal class on as well but all agreed that solving a murder was a little more urgent. Besides John was experienced with Roxanne so if Sherlock needed help he only needed to turn to his brother in law.  
“How was the interview anyway?"  
“Well…"

The day beforehand Sherlock was in Paris. Mycroft was helpful again, this time arranging for an appointment with Christopher Gallo. His son was guilty of sexuality assaulting a waitress in London and Harsha made sure he got maximum sentence for his crime. This displeased Gallo for he came from a world when one got everything one wanted on a silver platter. His sausage fingers decked with a gold signet ring each and the stolen paintings hanging on the walls of his mansion was testament to that.  
“Mr Holmes. I see you came alone. What is it that you speak of?"  
“A murder actually."  
“You mean the Cavallo case?” At those words, his henchpeople cocked their gun at Sherlock. "I can assure you I am innocent of that"  
“No.” The guns lowered. “The Sastri case."  
“Oh that! You mean that bitch got what's due."  
Sherlock’s neck tightened. “I am here because I think you may or may not know what caused the murder."  
“Have you not heard of Biancaneve? Snow White in your language? The bitch got jealous of her daughter. End of story."  
“Is that all you know?"  
“Yes. Now Fabbri, can you please escort Mr Holmes out, because he causes any more trouble?"  
The burliest of the men, with the biggest gun (compensating for his small self-esteem) grabbed Sherlock by the right arm and literally kicked Sherlock out the front door.

The conclusion from the meeting was obvious enough for John to guess. “He knows too much.” By that time the taxi had aligned at Harry’s place. Harry was by then married to a qualified pharmacologist Thomasina “Tom” Hurst who was more than willing to help. She had finished testing the medication for any impurities and had invited both Sherlock and John for a cup of tea. Speaking of the medicine somehow sparked a strange question in Sherlock’s mind. “Sharma is the older sister, right?,” he asked John. John replied in the affirmative. Then the door opened without any prompting.

“Ah, here are my brothers. I hope you trust me in my taste of teas?"  
“Why yes of course. Tea is tea right?"  
“Harry said you might say that. No, tea is not tea and you know that very well. Sherlock, do you have any preferences?"  
“Something with notes of vanilla and cream will suit me fine."  
“We shall have that. And my dear John, one of these days I need to introduce you to the marvellous wonders of tea."

In the kitchen Tom had a wonderful contraption, which Sherlock recognised was actually a Belgium coffee maker. Whilst the tea was brewing both Sherlock and Tom gave John a crash course on tea and forced him to sniff the various types Tom had in the cupboard. When the tea was finally made and poured, only then did Tom gave them a yellow envelope.

“The gist of the matter is, the drug is nothing but impurities,” said Tom.  
“What?,” said the two men at once with Sherlock raising one eyebrow.  
“The medication was fake of course, though that would be impossible to tell considering that everything else about it was legitimate. This is one of the benefits of owning a drug company I suppose."  
“Then what was it made of?,” asked John. Sherlock was too busy reading the in-depth results.  
“The casing was the same as the original drugs, gelatine, but the inside stuff was made of sugar."  
“Genius,” muttered Sherlock.  
“No Sherlock, it was not genius. It was evil! Manipulative!"  
“Actually, I’ll agree with Sherlock,” said Tom. “If it wasn’t for Sherlock, then we would never have known. Then the real murderer would have gotten away with this."

-§-

“So the theory goes,” summarised John, "Mr Gallo brought about Harsha’s murder by making Indira, her mother, mad though the lack of medication. Something still does not add up though. Why would Indira have voices telling her to murder her own daughter?”  
“This is why we are back at Bethlehem hospital and I have asked you to get a dictaphone."  
“I still cannot believe they still sell these. Dad used to boast how good his was."  
“No more fashionable than ink and paper. And I did not buy it. I borrowed it from Sharma."  
“How did you get an appointment with Indira so quickly?"  
“Firstly: my brother. Secondly: I am Sherlock Holmes."  
“Yes, Billy."

The waiting room was almost empty save a cleaner dusting the table. Sherlock and John had to wait a few minutes for the nurse to appear again to lead them to Indira. This time the room they were in was bare, lined from ceiling to floor with linoleum. There was a table with three chairs, one of them was occupied by Indira.

“Hello Mr Holmes. Dr Watson, I presume?"  
John nodded in the affirmative. Sherlock set up the soundstage.  
“Why are we in such a stark room,” asked Indira. “It has something to do with this dictaphone, right?"  
“Yes,” replied Sherlock. “We need a clear a recording as possible."  
“Of what?"  
“Of the voices that you heard that goaded to kill your daughter. I need you to do a good impression of it as possible."  
“But why?,” asked the other two in unison.  
“You will soon see why."


	5. The Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I was stuck in a place with no internet for the last fortnight or so.

The room was ready. It was plain, so plain that there was nowhere for the eyes to look, save a large mirror. One could look at the mirror and see oneself, but this room being inside Scotland Yard most people knew that the mirror hid something behind its superficiality.

Sharma was lead into this room for interrogation. She sat crossed legged on one of the beige chairs and stared at the other beige chair across a beige table. This was where Sherlock also promptly sat. Out of one of his coat pockets he takes out the dictaphone. Sharma picked it up.

“Can I please have it back?"  
“When you leave, after we discuss Harsha’ murder?"  
“Surely, an open and shut case."  
“At first. Though, we have reasons to believe there was something deeper going on."  
“Why do you say that?"  
“Sharma, how are your studies going?"  
“Why do you ask?"  
“Why do you not want to answer?"  
“Why is an innocent person being interrogated?"  
“If you really are innocent, then you would not be asking these questions. An innocent person would make a clean breast out of it and leave within ten minutes."  
“Fine. My studies are going fine."  
“Why did you not go into university in India, but your sister did? Surely, as an elder child, you should have finished studies before she did?"  
“You know how India is. It is not as enlightened as England."  
“Yet your sister is a lawyer."  
“There are exceptions."  
“Do you not feel jealous?"  
“No. Why should I? Indira was obviously the better daughter. Smarter, more genial, more beautiful…"  
“Why ‘was’?"  
“Killing a daughter never helps."  
“What are you getting at?"  
“I believe you were the one that goaded Indira to kill her daughter."  
Sharma narrowed her eyes. “Prove it."  
“I shall simply tell you how you did it and you can refute me if you wish. You are in charge of getting your sister’s medication. Therefore you have access to them, and the power to change them. With the help of Christopher Gallo, who has a cousin in the pharmaceutical industry, you got some sugar pills to replace your sister’s medication. With your sister’s mental health going downhill, you had a chance to goad her into killing her own daughter. How? By pretending to be the voices in her head. Hence, the dictaphone. Not your’s, of course, but I do have the recording of the voices you created.” He turned on the dictaphone. The screeching noise was already almost too hard to bear without knowing what was said. For Sharma, her horrified expression was unmistakable. “This,” continues Sherlock, “explains why Indira would murder in a carpeted hallway instead of somewhere more suitable, for example, a bathroom. She was finally driven mad by the “voice" in her head, which was hidden behind the mirror, and had to get it out as soon as possible. Poor Harsha, she was probably trying to find her mother for another pretend tea party. Instead, she got to her mother at the wrong place and wrong time."  
“This is a nice story, Mr Holmes, but really, quite fanciful. It sounds like something written by a young amateur mystery writer."  
“If this was fiction, then I would agree. However, this seems to be reality."  
“May I go now?"  
“If you wish. I am sorry, Sharma, that your beauty is considered lesser than your sister’s. It must have been hard on you, to be the least favoured child because of it."  
“It was. Yes, it was."  
“She is still your sister though."

A few days later, one of Mycroft Holmes’s cars aligned at Baker Street. Inside the car was one of Mycroft Holmes’s men with an envelope written in Mycroft Holmes’s hand. Upon receiving it Sherlock opened the envelope with one flick of a knife by the fireplace and read its contents. It was a rough piece of paper with Sharma’s handwriting on it.

_I’m sorry, sister._

Mycroft added an addendum underneath. “It seems that Sharma has committed suicide over the guilt. Revenge is always bittersweet, especially when uncalled for. P.S. I shall do my best to acquit Indira of the murder. At the very least, she will be allowed to attend her sister’s funeral."

Sherlock folded the letter and placed it on top of the others before stabbing the knife though them again. He then systematically took down all the mirrors in the house, from the one glued to the medicine cabinet to the underbrushed steel kettle on the stove. Some where more tricky than others but he had the full support of Molly, who somehow understood his struggle more than he ever could. It would be many months before Sherlock could bear to look at a reflection of himself again.


End file.
